


The Spiral

by DanaWPatterson



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Dark, Post 3x21, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanaWPatterson/pseuds/DanaWPatterson
Summary: Tasha hadn't left her apartment in days. Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the screen half-heartedly. She had no intentions of answering. The spiral had started, and Tasha was seemingly helpless to stop it.





	The Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I don't have any claims to these characters. That honor goes to the fabulous Martin Gero, but I'm eternally grateful for the opportunity to get in here, play puppet master, and muck around a bit. 
> 
> Also, this fic is rated Mature, simply for language and some slightly darker themes. The Rapata relationship is mentioned as its important to canon (and I do love me some canon), but if you're looking for a steamy Rapata fic, this isn't it. (I've got one in progress, however, so sit tight. I should have it out in a few days.) The last episode (3x21) left me a little heartsick over Zapata's future. Hence this work.

Tasha hadn't left her apartment in days. She hadn't bothered to shower, and her diet now consisted solely of delivered Thai and exceptionally greasy pizza. She was running low on beer and was waging a mental battle as to whether she should run to the bodega down the block and pick up another case. On one hand, if she decided to go, she'd have more beer but she'd have to leave the apartment. On the other, she wouldn't have to go outside but she'd be out of beer. She'd already drank most of the wine stored in her wine rack. She decided that if she went out, she'd pick up several cases of beer. Two would be better than one. Three would be even better. She fleetingly wondered if someone on Task Rabbit could pick up the beer for her.

Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the screen half-heartedly. She had no intentions of answering. And if it was an incoming text? Oh well. She hadn't answered text messages or any of the dozens of calls from Reade since she'd locked herself in. That was five days ago. 

It was Patterson. She considered picking up — she really could use her best friend — but decided against it. Patterson would want to talk about everything that was going on and that was the exact opposite of what Tasha was looking for right now. If Jane hadn't been hospitalized for her headaches, Tasha thought she'd be getting calls from her too. Jane cared too damn much about all of them. Even if they didn't deserve her compassion. Tasha thought empathy might be both the tattooed woman's biggest weakness and strength.

The spiral had started, and Tasha was seemingly helpless to stop it. 

She hadn't started spiraling right away. Keaton had fired her from the CIA and she'd almost been relieved. She rarely saw things in black and white, more like shades of gray, but some of the things she'd been tasked with lately were less part of the gray spectrum so much as they were downright questionable and morally ambiguous. Mayfair had once cautioned her about that. She wished she'd listened. But lately it felt like she was just wearing a second skin of slime. 

And then Reade had come on to her but she'd kept her head and turned him down. The timing was off. The timing was  _always_ off. But then she'd done the trademark Tasha Zapata thing, the thing that made everyone around her crazy. She'd impulsively gone to Reade's apartment, knocked on the door, and thrown away all the rules. They'd had sex, and she slipped out between rounds two and three while he dozed. 

He'd called her as soon as he woke up and she apologized, saying that she didn't want to make it weird. He had a job to go to and she didn’t. She had to find something to do with her new-found free time.  He'd told her to come back to the FBI but she'd turned him down. He did manage to convince her to come to the office as a consultant – she had plenty of insight that would make her valuable to the team. She'd helped Patterson in the lab while Reade and Weller and Jane had gone to South Africa after Roman and Crawford. Once that was done and the good guys had won the day, they'd had their group hugs, toasted with some bourbon, and she'd gone home. She didn't feel much like one of the good guys. That second skin of slime had a nasty way of hanging around.

And that's where she'd stayed. She'd locked her front door and pulled all the window shades. She couldn't hide from the world but she could close it out. At least temporarily. Or at least until the alcohol was gone. Or until she figured out what she was going to do next. Or the alcohol told her what she should do next.

She opened another beer and drank long from the bottle. She pushed her hair out of her face and realized how greasy it felt to her fingers. She twisted her greasy strands as she stared at the mess. The table in front of her couch was full of empty bottles and paper plates. A single wine glass was in the center of the mess as something of an homage to the respectable start to her drinking binge. Cigarette butts filled the glass. 

Tasha hadn't smoked since she was 15 years old sneaking smokes with her brothers in the alley behind her grandmother's apartment. She hadn't particularly liked it then, and she wasn't crazy about it now either but she'd picked up a couple packs of Marlboro Reds on her way home from the NYO after the case wrapped. The cigarettes gave her something to do with her hands when they weren't holding a bottle. And she felt that if she was going to become a drunk, she might as well start smoking too. It was better than betting on the NBA playoffs. Not that she hadn't checked the over/under on the Cavs and Celtics. She still had tentative control over her gambling problem.

Over the last year, Tasha felt like she'd lost just about everything that was important to her. She'd lost the trust of her friends. She'd lost the trust of coworkers at the FBI and the CIA. She'd lost her job and with it her purpose. She'd seen her friend Ricky die and she'd shoved Reade away again. Patterson was talking to her again but Tasha had pulled away with her self-imposed exile. She was avoiding anyone who reached out to her. And now she'd lost control. She'd started the spiral. 

Tasha knew that she needed to pull herself together. She'd set aside savings during her time with the CIA, but it wasn't like she'd been building on previously existing savings. Prior to joining the CIA, Tasha had been in debt. More debt than she liked to think about or even admit. She had savings now but if she didn't get it together, she'd burn through that money fast. And then she could add money and her home to the list of things she lost in just 365 days. 

She stood up with her beer bottle and headed into the kitchen. The counters were littered with the remains of every kind of take-out she could have delivered. Five empty bottles of red wine were strewn about. She picked one up and considered it. She'd opened it yesterday morning. She'd emptied it by noon. 

"I'm a fuck up," she said to the empty room. She bowed deeply to her audience of trash. "Hello, garbage. I'm one of you. All hail your queen." 

She heaved the empty wine bottle at the wall and watched it explode into dozens of pieces. Now it was just like her life. Broken into pieces. Dozens of sharp edges just waiting to cut someone. Someone who'd come along to help. They were the ones who always got hurt.  

She leaned against the counter and allowed herself to cry. She'd cried plenty of times over the last five days but the tears had been less frequent in the last 24 hours. Now, she leaned heavily against the counter and wiped at her face with her hands. A red-eyed woman with greasy, unkempt hair and cigarette burns on the back of her hand stared at her from across the room in silent judgement. 

"Go away," Tasha told her reflection. "Don't look at me like that. Stupid bitch.  You don't know. You have no idea." 

She cocked the arm holding her beer and took aim at the reflection in the kitchen window. Tasha was readying herself to heave the bottle when she heard a quiet knocking and her name being called. It sounded far away and for a moment Tasha was certain that she was hearing things.  _Add that to the list of things_ , she thought sourly.  _I'm losing my mind too._

The knocking became louder and this time she was certain she heard her name. She checked the time on the microwave. It was blinking. She'd never bothered to set it. She closed her eyes and searched her alcohol clouded mind. She didn't remember ordering any food. 

She made her way to the living room and checked the peephole. Patterson. 

 _Fuck_ , Tasha thought.  _What is Patterson doing here?_

"Tasha?" Patterson's voice came again. "I know you're in there. I'm like 99% certain I heard your voice in there. Open the door."

Tasha panicked. She didn't want Patterson to see her or the mess. She had the situation under control but if Patterson or any of her friends saw what she'd done, they'd overreact. She looked around the room and grabbed a blanket. She wrapped herself in it and coughed loudly several times. 

"Patterson?" Tasha said. She was trying to sound groggy. She worked the chain on her door and opened it a few inches. She looked out from eyes that she hoped look sleepy and sick and not drunk as hell. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

Patterson put a hand on the door and tried to open it further. Tasha held firm. 

"That's funny," she said. "I was about to ask you the same thing. Is everything okay? I've been calling."

"You have?" This wasn't an act. Tasha didn't remember her phone ringing or if Patterson had called. 

"Yes," Patterson said. Concern was creeping into her voice. "Repeatedly.  I called a little while ago and you didn't answer. I thought I should come by and see if you're okay.  _Are_ you okay?"

Tasha turned her head from Patterson and fake coughed several times.  She felt Patterson's eyes studying her and prayed that the lie she was selling was being bought.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "I just haven't been feeling well. A stomach bug or something." 

She brushed hair out of her face and Patterson caught a glimpse of the burn marks on the back of her hand. She nodded slowly. 

 _Stomach bug_ , Patterson thought.  _A stomach bug that smells like a five-day bender._

There was no mistaking the smell of alcohol coming from Tasha's pores. She was certain she also smelled cigarette smoke.

"Is there anything I can do?" Patterson asked. "Can I get you soup or anything from the pharmacy? Reade and I were worried."

"No," Tasha said perhaps a little too quickly. "I mean, I think I've got everything I need. I just need to sleep. Really."

Patterson tried to see into the apartment. She knew the brunette was hiding something from her but she couldn't see beyond Tasha and the blanket she'd wrapped herself in. 

"Ok. If you need anything at all though, please call," she said. 

"Thanks, Patterson," Tasha replied. "I will." 

Tasha closed the door before Patterson could say more. She waited frozen behind it until she was certain that she heard Patterson's footsteps walking away. She peeked through the peephole and saw nothing. Patterson was gone. She dropped to the floor, drawing her knees to her chin, and sobbed into her hands.

***

Patterson's knock on Reade's door was more insistent but, unlike Tasha, Reade answered the door after the first knock. 

"Hey, Patterson," he said, stepping aside as the scientist entered. "What's going on?"

"Have you talked to Tasha?"

Reade closed his door and turned to Patterson. 

"I've called her. I've texted. I think she's ghosting me after what happened," Reade said. 

"She's not ghosting you," Patterson said. "Wait, what do you mean 'after what happened'?" 

Reade sighed and considered his words carefully. "We hooked up that night after she got fired."

"What? Well, that’s new information," Patterson said. "But that's not it. She helped us in the lab after that, and she seemed okay when we went for drinks after we closed the case."

"What's going on, Patterson?" Reade asked. "You're acting like something's wrong."

Patterson sat down uninvited on Reade's couch. 

"I think something  _is_ wrong," she said and told him about her visit to Tasha's apartment. "She reeked of alcohol."

"So she's had some drinks," Reade said. "She just lost her job."

"It's 10:30 in the morning," Patterson said flatly. "And she's got all these marks on the back of her hand. They look like cigarette burns."

Reade shook his head. "Tasha doesn't smoke."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I've known Tasha for years. I've never seen her smoke anything. I've never even seen her with a lighter."

"Well, then I guess I'm crazy," Patterson said. "Her place smells like cigarette smoke and alcohol."

Reade thought for a minute. "She could have company. Maybe one of her brothers is in town."

"She wouldn't let me in the door."

"That doesn't mean —"

"Something's not right," Patterson insisted. "I know Tasha —"

"So do I."

"I'm not saying you don't. I just know that something's not right."

***

Tasha lit a cigarette and sucked it in. She coughed. She'd gone through about half a pack and still wasn't used to inhaling the harsh, acrid smoke. She stared at the burning end for a moment and thought about the trajectory her life had unexpectedly taken. She took a swallow from the open beer near her elbow. There were only six bottles left in the fridge, and she'd slowed her drinking but she'd have to take action soon. 

She didn't know what to do with herself. She'd only ever worked in law enforcement and intelligence. She'd gone from the NYPD to the FBI to the CIA. She wasn't exactly qualified for a random office job. She knew how to carry a gun and fire it, how to use an attacker's own momentum and body weight against him, and how to hack into a computer. She couldn't go back to the CIA. They didn't make it a practice to hire back fired agents. After Andy had been killed, she had no interest in going back to the NYPD. There was the FBI. Reade would hire her back to the NYO. She was almost certain he would but who would he pair her up with? Since she'd gone to the CIA and returned to the FBI NYO, she'd done nothing but burn bridges and give agents a reason to distrust her. 

She thought about the gun she kept in her nightstand. She'd bought it after leaving the NYPD and kept it around for home defense. Tasha thought she ought to feel something but she was numb. She had no reason to get up in the morning. Nothing was driving her forward for the first time in a very long time. What was the point?

She took another swallow of the beer and dragged on the cigarette. She considered the glowing red tip again and pressed it against the tender flesh on the inside of her arm near the elbow. It burned the skin and she could only hold it there for a moment before pulling it away. She stared at the circular patch of seared flesh on her arm alongside the others. It hurt like hell. 

 _Good_ , Tasha thought.  _At least I feel something_. 

She chugged the rest of her beer and tossed the empty bottle across the floor. It clanked against the baseboard. 

_Now what, Zapata?_

She got to her feet and started to wander around her apartment. This was part of the habit she'd fallen into. She'd sit on the couch and drink.  Then go into the kitchen and drink. Occasionally she found her way into the bedroom or the bathroom and she stared at her reflection. She had no real goal as she roamed. She just needed to move. She walked into the bedroom and hesitated at the nightstand. Her gun was in there. She opened the drawer and removed the 9mm Smith and Wesson.  She felt the heft of it in her hand and stared at it for a minute. She left the room with her gun and dropped it on the couch and continued roaming.

Tasha found herself in the kitchen. She lifted a container of glass noodles to her face and sniffed. They needed to go in the garbage. She walked the container to the trash can and caught sight of the broken wine bottle on the floor. 

The cloud of booze wasn't nearly as thick as it had been when she'd smashed the bottle against the wall. She barely even remembered doing it. She crouched on the floor and began picking up the pieces one by one. 

"Shit!" A one-inch piece of broken glass cut across her palm. Blood dripped from her hand onto the floor. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she yelled, dropping the glass shards into the trash and grabbing a paper towel to wrap around her cut hand.  She was heading to the bathroom to clean out the cut when there was a knock on the door. It was louder than Patterson's had been. 

 _Yesterday?_  Tasha wondered.  _Did Patterson come by yesterday? Was it earlier today?_  She couldn't remember. The last week was a blur of alcohol and emotions. 

"Hang on a second," Tasha yelled to the visitor. "Just wait. I'll be there in a minute."

She hurried into the bathroom cradling her bleeding hand and grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from under the sink. She unscrewed the cap and poured it over the gash in her palm.

"FUCK!" she yelled and then whimpered in pain. The cut on her hand bubbled angrily when the peroxide came into contact with it. This pain felt more real than all the cigarette burns. She sat on the floor and leaned against the vanity as she rummaged for bandages.

The knock on her door came again.

"Just wait a damn minute!" she yelled again this time more agitated. 

***

Reade heard Tasha banging around inside her apartment followed by a loud yell and then a scream of pain. He knocked on the door again and heard Tasha yell again. He couldn't make out the words but there was anger and pain behind them. 

"Did you bring a snap gun?" Reade asked Patterson as he tested the doorknob and found it locked.

"Why would I bring a lock pick gun when I visit my friend?" Patterson asked. 

Reade shook his head in frustration. "I don't know. You're Patterson."

"Ok, well, that’s super presumptive," she said as she stepped up to the door and pulled a set of lock picking keys from her purse. "I mean, I carry these everywhere but thanks for just assuming."

Reade heard a scream from inside the apartment and knocked again. 

"You gotta hurry that up, Patterson," he said as she manipulated the tension on the lock and heard a faint click. 

She pushed the door open and the door chain prevented their entry. Reade threw his weight against it and the chain ripped free from the door casing. He fell into the apartment and took a second to scan the room. Patterson pushed past him and froze. The room was a mess. Bottles, takeout containers, and cigarette butts littered the room.  

"Blood," she whispered and pointed to a trail of blood drops leading from the kitchen. 

Reade pulled his gun and stepped into the room. He cleared the kitchen before going further into the apartment. 

"Tasha?" he called. 

Patterson followed behind him, drawing her own weapon and surveying the mess. She spotted an overturned table and wondered briefly if there had been a break-in. 

"Shhh," she whispered suddenly and hit Reade in the upper arm. "Do you hear that?"

Reade stopped walking and listened. He heard a faint whimpering sound.

"Tasha?" he called again. 

***

Tasha was certain she heard Reade's voice in her living room. He was calling her name. 

"Reade?" she asked. 

"Tasha?" 

It was definitely Reade's voice. She wasn't hallucinating that. Or maybe she was. A hallucination brought on by alcohol and blood loss.  _What is he doing here?_

"In here," she called to the Reade voice in the living room.

She was fighting with a gauze pad and first aid tape when Reade appeared in the doorway with his gun drawn.  Tasha forgot the cut on her hand and looked up at Reade. She saw two of him.

"Reade? There's two of you," she said.

Reade holstered his gun and crouched on the floor in front of Tasha. 

"What is going on in here?" he asked, seeing the burns on her arms and cut on her palm. He couldn't help but notice the strong odor of alcohol coming from her. "Did you do all this to yourself?"

Patterson stepped into the room beside Reade and relaxed the aim on her own gun. She pushed past Reade and kneeled next to Tasha. 

"You're bleeding like crazy! What did you do?"

"Ummm," Tasha began. She thought for a minute and studied the gash. How had she cut herself? "There was a bottle. It was broken and I was picking it up. I, uh, I cut myself."

Patterson grabbed Tasha's hand and inspected the cut. It was still bleeding. She grabbed a piece of gauze and wiped away the excess blood and looked for any pieces of glass that might be left in the wound. Satisfied there was none, she helped Tasha to her feet and had her sit on the toilet lid. 

"Reade, why don't you go and clear a space in the living room so we can chat," Patterson said. "I'll bandage this up and we'll be out in a minute."

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, we'll be right out."

***

Reade grabbed the trash can from the kitchen and began cleaning up some of the mess in the living room. The couch was littered with food wrappers, bottle caps, and the cellophane from a cigarette pack. He started to clear off the table and stopped. He wanted to confront Tasha with the mess still there. Whatever she'd been doing over the last five days wasn't good. He sat on the couch and immediately stood back up. He'd sat on Tasha's 9mm. He pulled the clip from it and put it in his pocket before setting the gun on the table with the rest of Tasha's disaster and sat back on the couch.

Patterson came back into the living room a moment later with Tasha. The brunette's hand was wrapped in gauze and some type of white ointment had been applied to the burns on her arms. Patterson pushed Tasha down onto the couch beside Reade and walked into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a tall glass of water. She forced it into Tasha's hand. She brushed garbage from a nearby armchair onto the floor and sat down. She silently studied the other woman. 

"Have you seen the kitchen?" Patterson asked Reade, breaking the silence after several long moments. "It's like Guns N Roses threw a party in there."

Reade turned to Tasha and waited for her to explain. She didn't say anything. 

"What's going on, Tash?" he asked. His tone was more accusatory than he wanted it to be but he couldn't help it. He was confused and concerned by everything that he saw. 

"Nothing's going on Reade," she said finally. "I just haven't cleaned up lately."

He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table and held them up to her. 

"You're smoking now?"

"What difference does it make?"

He sighed and tossed the pack back down. 

"Real talk, here Tasha," he said. "What is going on? I mean, no one's heard from you for days and Patterson stops by and says that you smell like the floor of a bar. We get here and find you bleeding, covered in burn marks, and no offense or anything, but smelling like that drunk homeless guy we used to pass every morning on the way into the office."

"I've had some drinks —"

"Some drinks?" Patterson exclaimed. "Look around you, Tasha. There's..." she counted quickly, "46 empty bottles in this room alone. And that's not counting any you might have thrown away. And I saw the empty wine bottles. That's not 'some drinks'."

"Ok, fine," Tasha said, her voice adopting a defensive tone. "I had a lot of drinks. What's your point, Patterson? I just lost my damn job. I think I'm entitled to get a little drunk."

"A little drunk?!" Patterson was on her feet. She shoved her hand in Tasha's face. "How many fingers am I holding up Tash?"

Tasha squinted at Patterson and tried to focus her gaze at the blonde's hand. "Five."

Patterson put her fingers directly in front of Tasha's face and wiggled them. "Three. That's three damn fingers. You're plowed. You are fucking hammered." 

Reade stood up and put a hand on Patterson's shoulder. She got the message:  _Sit down and shut up_. She held her hands up in surrender and turned away from them. 

"Do you know how much you've had to drink in the last few days?" Reade asked, sitting back down. 

Tasha considered this for a minute. There'd been the wine bottles in the kitchen and all the beer. 

"You have no idea," Reade said before she could answer. "What are those marks on your arm? They look like cigarette burns."

"They might be," Tasha said. Her voice was tinted with shame, and she looked down at the burns.

"Why?" 

"It hurt," Tasha said simply. 

"I'm sure it did but why would you do that?" Reade said not understanding her meaning. 

"No, I mean, that's why," she said. "I feel like I should feel  _something_ and I don't. But the burns, I felt those."

Reade didn't reply for a long time and Patterson sat back down in the chair. Tasha wouldn't meet their eyes. She was still very drunk but she knew they were judging her. Knowing Reade, he was carefully considering what he should say or do next.  And, knowing Patterson, she was probably blaming herself for everything she saw here. Tasha took a long drink from the glass Patterson had given her. It was the first glass of water she'd had in days and she hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she started drinking it. She emptied the glass and turned it nervously in her hands. Patterson grabbed it and refilled it in the kitchen. 

"So, what do you think you should be feeling?" Patterson asked as she handed back the glass. 

Tasha took another long drink and then looked up at Patterson. Her head felt less fuzzy. 

"I don't know," Tasha confessed. "Something. I've lost my job. Lost my friends. Lost my... I don't know what to do next."

Reade's gaze fell on to the Smith and Wesson he'd pulled out of the couch. 

"Did 'what to do next' have something to do with that gun?"

Tasha didn't respond. 

Patterson hadn't seen the gun on the table and her eyes fell on it now. She was horrified that Reade had found it in Tasha's living room. 

"Were you going to shoot yourself?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. 

"No!" Tasha insisted. 

"So what were you doing with it?" Patterson asked. 

"I don't know," Tasha said. Tears had formed in her eyes and were now streaming down her cheeks. "I've been wandering around and I grabbed it the last time I was in the bedroom. I don't know if I was going to do anything with it. I just took it out."

Reade broke the silence again.  

"What's your next move, Tash?" he asked. "What do you want to do?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. 

Reade gestured to the room. "Is this what you want?"

"No, I just...no."

"Ok, so this nightmare isn't what you want," he said. "Then let's do something else. Come back to the FBI."

Tasha shook her head. "I can't do that. Who's going to trust me? After everything I've done, do you want to go out in the field with me? Wouldn't you question what I'm about to do next?"

"No," Reade said. "I trust you with my life. I  _have_  trusted you with my life."

"But the CIA—"

"Fuck the CIA. And fuck Keaton," Reade said. "The Tasha Zapata I know isn't the same person that was working for Keaton. I know you. I trust you."

He glanced over at Patterson. Given their recent history, he wasn't sure what Patterson's stance on Tasha was. 

"And if no one wants you in the field, I trust you in the lab," Patterson said. 

Tasha looked up. She was surprised. 

"Really?"

"Well, yeah," Patterson said.  "I mean, you're a Girl Who Can Code, and I always need smart people. I guess I could find room for you. We trust Rich with the computers and I trust you more than him."

Tasha smiled but shook her head. 

"I don't know though, guys," she said. "I mean, do you really want a CIA reject?"

Reade shrugged. "Well, when you put it that way, yeah." He waved a hand towards the mess. "This isn't you. And it doesn't have to be. Come back."

Tasha finished her glass of water and considered. There really wasn't much to consider. She tucked a strand of greasy hair behind her ear. 

"Ok."

Patterson got out of her chair and sat next to Tasha. She gave her a hug. 

"Can we put one condition on you coming back?"

Tasha pulled away and looked at Patterson confused. 

"You need to shower."


End file.
